“Who is your momma, Momma?”  It takes me by surprise, his question.  With brows furrowed, Reichen peers at me through the rear view mirror waiting for an answer.  We’re in the minivan driving to Target.  I promised my potty training toddler he could pick out one toy from the super store if  he went #2 on the toilet.  A few minutes and a series of squeezes later, we had a winner.

“My momma is Nina,” I smile at him and say.  ‘Nina’ named herself after my brother gave her her first grandchild seven years ago.  I’m not sure why she didn’t want to be called ‘grandma’, but I have a sneaking suspicion it had a something to with her feeling too young to take the title.

“Your momma is Nina,” he squints while questioning my reply.

“Yeah, buddy.  Nina is my momma,” I confirm.

Reichen mulls it a minute before asking, “Momma?  Who is Dadda’s momma?”

I see it.  It’s happening right in front of me.  He’s making connections, my first born.  He’s beginning to think outside himself.

“Dadda’s momma is Grandma,” I say.

“Dadda’s momma is Grandma,” he reiterates.

During the 10 minute trip to Target, we go through quite a few branches of our family tree.  Who are my brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas.  Who are daddy’s brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas.

And he gets it.  And it’s amazing. 

Almost as amazing as him going #2 on the toilet. 

Almost.